


(You Can Stand) Under My Umbrella

by AgentStannerShipper



Series: Puzzle Pieces [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Greg Lestrade is majorly pining, M/M, Mycroft's Umbrella, Pre-Relationship, but its never explicitly stated, mentions of eating disorders
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-17
Updated: 2017-01-17
Packaged: 2018-09-18 04:10:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 988
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9367337
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AgentStannerShipper/pseuds/AgentStannerShipper
Summary: Mycroft Holmes makes an unexpected gesture.Or, that day in the rain referenced in Lean On Me.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Title is from Umbrella by Rihanna. Not Brit-picked, so let me know if there's a problem. It looks like I'm going to expand a little bit more in this universe, so if you like it, stay tuned for more sad, post-series four Mycroft and more comforting Lestrade. Also, this fic is supposed to be approximately two years prior to series four. If my timeline is way off, let me know.

It was absolutely pouring. The rain fell, thick as a waterfall, sloshing through the streets of London like an aggressive Lazy River ride. Greg Lestrade turned his coat collar up in an attempt to keep at least somewhat dry, but by the time he stepped inside the restaurant, wishing he’d thought to grab an umbrella when he left home that morning, he was thoroughly drenched. He shrugged out of his wet coat, barely noticing when one of the staff removed it from his arms. He didn’t even need to approach the hostess before there was a hand on his elbow and a voice saying, “this way, Detective Inspector.”

Greg knew better than to ask questions, and in short order he was delivered to a table at the very back of the restaurant, where Mycroft Holmes, in his customary three-piece suit, was waiting for him.

“Detective Inspector,” Mycroft greeted him when Greg sat down.

“I’ve told you before, Mycroft, you can call me Greg.” He leaned back in his chair, knowing that Mycroft had already ordered for both of them, and asked, “So what’s this about, then?”

Mycroft considered him over the rim of his water glass. He raised an eyebrow. “How do you know this isn’t merely a social call?”

 _If only_ , Greg sighed inwardly. Instead, he replied, “You never call me out just for a chat. You always have something you want to talk about. What is it this time? Sherlock’s not using again, is he?”

“No, nothing like that,” Mycroft assured him, “although, if he was, you’d be the first to know.”

A waiter stopped by and set a plate in front of each of them. Greg wasn’t sure if Mycroft had spied on him to figure out what he liked to eat or if it was just a side effect of so many lunches and dinners together. Part of Greg hated how well Mycroft knew him. It was another reminder of how close they could be when Mycroft was still so far out of reach. Only in the farthest parts of his mind did he allow himself to imagine that these meetings were dates.

Greg began eating, waiting for Mycroft to speak. As usual, the gentleman didn’t touch his plate. Greg wanted to say something, but pushed it aside. It wasn’t his place to lecture Mycroft on his lifestyle. Finally, Mycroft said, “I am…worried about my brother.”

“Aren’t we all,” Greg said without thinking.

Rather than be offended, Mycroft laughed. “Yes, he is quite the handful. Better, in recent years, I think.”

“That’ll be John’s influence,” Greg responded. “He’s good for Sherlock. Humanizes him.”

“Precisely,” Mycroft agreed. He pushed at a piece of parsley with his fork, and Greg bit back another comment about eating lunch instead of playing with the garnish. Mycroft continued, “That’s what I’m worried about, actually. There seems to be a…divide growing between my brother and his partner.”

“You called me out here because John and Sherlock are having a row?” Greg laughed, “Relax, Mycroft. They’ll get over it. Thick as thieves, those two.”

Mycroft didn’t look convinced. “What about John’s wife, then?”

“First of all,” Greg said, swallowed down another bite, “Mary adores Sherlock. She likes having him around. They have this sort of…I dunno, kindred souls thing going on. Second of all, Mary knows how important Sherlock is to John, and how important John is to Sherlock. She’s not going to get between them.”

When Mycroft still looked worried, Greg leaned across the table. “Hey, I get it. You’re worried about Sherlock. We all know what happens when he gets low, and you want to save him from that. But it’s fine, I promise you.”

Mycroft finally nodded. “Alright. I trust your judgment, Gregory.”

Greg preened, both from the praise and from Mycroft using his name instead of his title. He finished the meal, not wanting to let his lunch go to waste like Mycroft seemed to content to do, and moved to stand. “I’ll be seeing you, then?”

Mycroft stood as well, “I’ll walk you to the door.”

Again, Greg was forced to squash the feeling that this was a date down into the recesses of his mind. Mycroft was being polite. If nothing else, the elder Holmes brother had impeccable manners.

In the entryway, Greg’s jacket was returned to him, mostly dry, and he pulled it around his shoulders and flipped the collar up. He opened the door and braced himself for the downpour still tormenting the city. Mycroft caught his hand, and pinpricks of fire raced up Greg’s arm as he paused and looked back at the other man. There was a moment where Mycroft appeared to be deliberating, before he offered out his umbrella and said, “Take this.”

Greg stared at him in shock, and it took him a second to shake it off enough to take the proffered object. “Thanks,” he somehow managed to say with his suddenly dry throat.

“It’s no trouble,” Mycroft replied. “I’d drop you off, but I’m afraid I’m going the other way. It’s the least I can do.”

Greg gave Mycroft a crooked, grateful smile, “Stop ‘round the office to pick it up.” An abrupt burst of bravery had him adding, “Or you could stop by my flat if you haven’t got the time until later. You know my address.”

Mycroft’s smile was, Greg felt, at least a little bit calculating. “I certainly do,” he replied. “Good afternoon, Gregory.” He stepped around the Detective Inspector, and was only in the rain for a moment before he slid smoothly into the backseat of his black car, which disappeared around the corner moments later.

Greg ran his fingers gently over the sleek black fabric and smooth, wooden handle of Mycroft’s umbrella, feeling inexplicably like he’d been given a gift. After a moment of savoring the sensation, he opened up the umbrella, and stepped out into the pouring rain.


End file.
